Date: Sun, 8 Oct 2006 16:49:26 -0700 (PDT)
From: James Spaulding
Subject: Not Just His Grandpa, Part 3
The following story is a piece of fiction. If suggestions of incest offend
you please do not read. If you enjoyed this story, feel free to contact me
at fathercandy@yahoo.com. There is more to come...
Not Just His Grandpa, part 3
I hoped to enter Peter's room undetected. No such luck. His lights were
on; he was sitting on the floor, eating some cold pizza. He wore nothing
but his boxer shorts.
"Hey? Grandpa? What the hell took you so long?"
"I...I met up with John Peterman. We hung out for a while."
"Well, for someone who took a cold shower, you sure look like you've been
covered in sweat. And, what? You talked to him in nothing but a towel?
Seems odd." Odd. But he seemed to find it funny; his bites of pizza
weren't enough to erase his smirk.
I was only wearing my towel. My clothes were in my hands. I hadn't thought
Peter would still be awake. I thought I could enter the room, put on my
pajamas in the dark, and get some much-needed rest. Now, after a crazy
evening, I had to cover my tracks.
"Come to think of it, Petey, it was odd. But John and I go way back; I
guess we didn't think anything of it."
"Was his nephew Burl there?'
"Ah yeah, he...he had just gotten in."
I turned to my suitcase, searching for my pajamas. No luck.
"What are you looking for Grandpa?"
"I seem to have forgotten to pack my pajamas."
"No sweat. Sleep in your underwear. It's just us. Be comfortable."
Comfortable? How could I be comfortable? Even after two orgasms, I found
my gaze returning to my lovely grandson. He was so beautiful. And, having
seen his cock twice in these past few hours, I kept hoping to see it
escaping from the loose seems of his boxer shorts. I kept trying to
glance. I kept trying to control my thoughts.
I turned from him, dropped my towel and reached for a pair of my boxer
shorts. I heard rustling behind me.
"Grandpa?"
Peter had walked toward me. I was naked. He was wearing nothing but his
shorts.
"What's this?"
"What?"
"Here are your pajamas."
He was right; they were right in front of my eyes. I reached for them,
hoping to get them on as quickly as possible. In my hurry I put my right
foot into the left leg and with one lame attempt at fixing my error, I fell
into Peter.
I felt his hands steady me. One on my stomach. The other around my
buttocks.
"Grandpa? Are you getting all old on me and shit?"
Why was I so speechless? Why was I so uncomfortable? Why did Peter's
hands feel so good as they steadied me?
Peter looked at me. I caught his gaze. But could only hold it for a short
period of time. Too much was going on inside of me. And I needed to get
dressed; my "glory" was intensifying: yet another erection was making an
unwelcome appearance.
Peter's hands moved to my right arm. "On second thought, you are most
definitely not an old man. You got some muscles, Gramps." Peter's hands
moved from my right arm to my left arm. I found myself flexing. (What?
Had I become a vain muscle head as well as a sex pig? All in one night?)
But I loved the admiration. Peter's hands then moved to my chest, he
rubbed, my nipples got hard. Peter moved behind me, hands staying on my
shoulders. He continued to rub my neck, my shoulders, my chest. Then his
hands moved to my nipples. His fingers began to play with them. They got
hard. I felt Pete standing behind me. Close. Too close. I lost myself
in the contact. I lost words. I reacted only as a body.
Peter whispered in my ear, his voice husky. "Look at you, Grandpa?"
I left my reverie. I had my pajama bottoms in my right hand; I was doing
my best to hide my erection. What did Peter see? I could only hope it was
a platonic admiration for my physique. And even as I hoped that, I knew
these past few moments had been anything but platonic.
"You look good." He smiled. He winked. And he walked back to his pizza.
I quickly turned around and put on my pajama bottoms. My erection stuck
out. I was sporting a woody that I could only try to hide. I kept my back
turned to Peter as I put on my pajama shirt. Finally, with some sort of
decorum, I turned back to Peter. He was eating his pizza. Gazing at me.
His eyes moved to my crotch.
"Ah...Grandpa? Your dick is sticking out."
I looked. I was appalled. For all of my attempts at propriety, I had
failed to snap my pajama fly. There I was, still mostly erect. Sticking
out for Peter to see.
"Looks like we're even. You saw mine. And now I see yours."
Again, I turned my back to him, adjusted myself, and quickly walked to the
bed.
"You don't have to get all stuffy and stuff. I mean, it's just your cock."
"I know it's just my cock, Peter. But a man my age does not enjoy showing
the world - or his grandson - his erection."
"You were erect?"
Damn. What had I said? How could I get out of this one?
"Whatever. My cock was sticking out of my fly. I'm embarrassed. I feel
like I must look as though I am losing my sanity. I'm sorry. I'm
embarrassed. Now I want to go to sleep."
"Nothing to be embarrassed about Grandpa; I was impressed."
With that, Peter put the pizza away, shut off his lights, and moved to his
sofa.
"Goodnight, Grandpa."
"Goodnight, Peter."
He was impressed? What the hell is a man my age supposed to make of that?
My grandson gave me a massage, admired my muscles, and then, when I was
beside myself with confusion, he told me my penis was impressive. I
refused to do my math. I refused to think. Nothing was going on. It was
just the younger generation being young.
...
The younger generation woke early. But the older generation wakes earlier.
I was lying in bed, reading a book, when Peter's alarm went off.
The first words out of his mouth. "Shit"
"Good morning to you, too, Peter."
"Uh...Sorry, Grandpa. I just hate early morning lacrosse practice."
I watched as Peter removed his blanket and rose to face the morning. Yes,
it is a clich^Â. But the boy had a morning hard on. And, because the boy
was blessed with the largest penis I have ever seen, I saw it, once again,
in all of its splendor, its length and its girth, snaking its way through
the slit in his boxer shorts. Peter fixed himself, but not before I had my
look. And then my realization: a good night's sleep had done nothing to my
improper thoughts. I was still transfixed by my 18 year-old grandson's
perfect cock and perfect body.
But the show wasn't finished. Peter walked to his drawers. Stepped out of
his shorts and reached for his jock strap. He turned toward me. I watched
as he slid his jock strap past his thighs, adjusting his cup, trying to
make his penis fit and failing miserably. Finally, he gave up, the head of
his cock stuck up, over the fabric.
He turned to me with a smile. "It will go down after I take a piss."
He put on a pair of shorts, a t-shirt, some socks, some shoes, and walked
out of the door before I could even think of a response.
...
After Peter left, I walked around campus. We had a few hours before the
Homecoming celebrations began and then another hour or two before the game.
It felt nice to walk around the campus. Even as so much had changed - all
of these new math and science and computer centers - the old campus was
still the old campus. I had a cup of coffee and a donut at the student
union. And then, glancing at my watch, I realized it was time to return to
Peter's frat house. I still hadn't figured out a response to Peter's
words. By the time I got to Peter's room my hope was that no response was
necessary. I had convinced myself that once again I simply did not
understand this younger generation.
I walked into Peter's room. He was dressed. He was sitting at his desk
lost in a textbook of some sort. Happily, all seemed normal.
"I was starting to worry Grandpa. Are you ready?"
I was ready. And so we made our way to our first party. The drinking
began. Yes, Peter was underage. His friends were underage. But the
campus didn't seem to think this any sort of problem. Alcohol flowed. And
flowed. And we continued to drink. We drank at the game. And then had to
continue drinking to celebrate our victory. By the time we made it back to
Peter's fraternity, Peter and I were slurring our words, and using each
other to steady ourselves as we climbed the stairs to his room.
"Fuck. Grandpa. That was a day." Peter moved removed his shoes, his
belt, undid his shirt, and flopped down on his bed.
I wasn't pleased to hear such coarse language out of Peter's mouth. But I
had been nothing but some sort of derelict all weekend. Why start spouting
rules of decorum now. I removed my shoes and moved to his sofa. The room
was sort of spinning. My head was sort of spinning. But the sensation
felt good. I had had a wonderful day, enjoying Peter's friends and
reveling in Peter's companionship. We had fun. I felt young. I was in a
good place.
"Well, Grandpa, we got some time to kill before dinner. You need to take a
nap or anything?"
"Peter, if I slept now, I wouldn't wake up until tomorrow morning."
"Well, then, I better do my best to keep you awake. I better be my most
stimulating."
I laughed. Peter laughed. And then he stared at me.
His stare silenced me. Silence followed.
And then Peter began.
"Dad told me about the two of you."
Speechless does not describe the way I felt. My head had been spinning a
little, now it felt as though it had been slammed to the ground. I was
thoughtless. I was breathless. And when my thoughts began again, they
were painful.
"He told me that the two of you messed around. He said it happened before
he married mom. He said that you had suggested the two of you go fishing
for a weekend, hoping to get to know each other better. He laughed when he
told me that; he said by the time the weekend was over he knew you better
than he had known any man before."
"It was a hot story. I mean, I guess I was shocked at first. I mean,
really shocked. I knew about Dad and all. But I had no idea you liked to
mess around with guys. But once I got used to the idea, Dad's story
started to turn me on like I had never been turned on before."
"He said you bought a tent just for the weekend. You were proud to say you
were going to rough it with the man who was going to marry your daughter.
After you set up the tent, the two of you started drinking. I guess it was
too late to fish and both of you were exhausted from the drive. Dad said
you were kind of in the middle of nowhere."
Peter continued to tell the story as it had been told to him. Of course,
his father's version was slightly different from what actually happened.
But get past the details, and what happened was pretty simple: we got
drunk, we got naked, I fucked him, and he fucked me. We fucked all
weekend. Simple.
But, forgive the clich^Â, the devil is in the details.
...
I did buy a tent, a two man pup tent that would barely fit the two of us,
but I was not going to spend a lot of money on a tent I would never use
again. By the time we had finished setting up camp, the sun was setting.
Jason, Peter's father, went to the truck and returned with a bottle of Jack
Daniels. We took turns sipping from the bottle.
The sun set. We built a fire. And the night passed. Conversation was
easy. I was pleased with my daughter's choice of husband. Jason was 28, a
few years older than my daughter. He had already made a name for himself
in real estate. But, other than small talk, Jason and I had had very few
conversations. As the darkness grew and our world narrowed to the bottle
and the fire, I found myself smitten. Jason was funny. He was
intelligent. And he was very handsome.
Jason got up. "All right, Mr. Eggert. I have to take a leak."
I gave Jason my hand. "Help an old guy up, will you? I'll join you at the
tree."
The night was beautiful. I doubt the moon was full, but I do know it was
bright to see the forest around us. We walked towards the river, unzipped
our pants, and took a piss.
"Damn, it's a beautiful night. Look how nice the river looks."
'Perfect."
"Hey, Mr. Eggert, how about a swim?"
"Well, Jason, I did not bring a suit."
"Neither did I. But who needs a suit? It's just us. No one's around. I
think the road we took to this spot hasn't been used in months. Besides, a
nice swim might sober me up a bit."
"OK. Jason. Let's do it. Mind if I get the bottle? I don't intend to
sober up."
"I don't either. It just sounded nice."
We got the bottle, and moved to the river. Jason started to take his
clothes off. He unbuttoned his shirt. Undid his pants and they fell to
the ground. By the time he stepped out of his shorts, I had taken off my
shirt. He turned to the river.
"Last one in is pussy."
I still had on my shorts.
"I guess you're the pussy, Mr. Eggert." We laughed.
I watched as he moved to the water. He was a little shorter than me.
Somewhere around 5'10". He had a full head of blond hair. (Just like
Peter.) His chest was also covered. I removed my pants and shorts and
soon followed him into the water. The water was cool, but not so cold so
as to be uncomfortable. After a few minutes, Jason moved to the shore.
"I'm going to get that bottle."
I watched as he left the water. Nice ass. Nice back. This was long
before our current muscle fixation. Neither Jason nor I had visited a gym
since college. That said, he was firm and fit. With bottle in hand, Jason
turned to the river. I saw his cock for the first time. I couldn't help
but be impressed. He was flaccid, and, even though he had just left the
cool water of the river, his dick must have been six inches. There was a
moment when the water that dripped from Jason reflected the moonlight. He
glowed. In that moment I thought: he's beautiful.
We continued to drink.
"OK. It is time for the old guy to make his way back to camp."
Jason followed me. We were wet and hadn't thought to bring our towels to
the river. We returned to the camp naked. Something told me that Jason
was checking me out. And in my drunken fashion, I was flattered. And,
again, in my drunken way, I was checking him out. We were too drunk to be
subtle. We dried off. Each watching the other. Admiring. Beginning to
feel what can only be called lust. We wrapped our towels around our waste.
We had finished the JD. We stood there for a moment. Empty bottle. Still
awake.
"Should I open the other bottle?"
Jason didn't respond to my question. He stared at me.
His silence made me uncomfortable. 'Yeah, maybe we should turn in."
Jason continued to stare at me. He smiled. He walked towards me, and, as
he did, he removed the towel from around his waste. Immediately, my eyes
moved to his crotch. His cock was well on the way to full attention. I
had been impressed before, but was even more impressed.
Without thinking, I spoke. I had lost the ability to control my words.
"That is some cock, there, Jason."
"Thank you Mr. Eggert." And with those words he removed my towel. He was
only a few inches from me. His right hand moved to my head and he brought
his lips to mine. Our first kiss. Drunken. Sloppy. And an invitation to
complete abandon.
He began to assert pressure, moving my mouth from his mouth, moving my
mouth down his body. My tongue stopped at his nipples. I licked them. He
pushed my face into his chest. He wanted it rough. I bit his nipples. My
tongue and my teeth. Jason groaned with pleasure.
I needed no more pressure, I got to my knees and knelt before my daughter's
fianc^Â. I took his cock in my hands. Amazed at its length. Amazed at
its girth.
"That's it Mr. Eggert, put it in your mouth. Suck my cock."
I was unable to refuse. Though I had sucked a few cocks in my lifetime -
always drunk - I felt like a virgin. Jason's cock was so big. My mouth
needed to adjust. I had every intention of pleasuring him. I was
determined to take all of his cock. Ten inches? More? All I knew was I
wanted to please him. I worked and worked. And Jason responded.
"You can do it, Sir. Come on, Mr. Eggert. You're almost there." Jason
continued to give me more of his cock, and I took it as best as I could. I
gagged. But I never stopped. And in time my mouth reached the base of his
cock.
"Fuck, Dad. Fuck." He called me Dad. And I lost myself. My earliest gay
fantasies were about my own father. Now I was helping Jason fulfill his.
I was game.
"Give it to me, Son."
He gave it to me. And with a few deep thrusts he exploded. His cum filled
my mouth. And I did my best to swallow all of it. Jason pulled his cock
from my mouth and he pulled me to my feet.
"Thanks, Dad."
"Ah...thank you, Jason. I ... uh...."
"Now I'm going to return the favor, Sir."
...
My grandson's words interrupted my reverie. "Any way, Dad said you had a
great weekend. He said you guys got real nasty. I just can't believe it.
I mean you and my dad? Nasty? Really?"
By this point, lost in my memories, I had lost my reason. I was willing to
answer Peter's questions. I was willing to give him the details his dad
may have forgotten.
I began my story.